


It's Not So Much Where We Are, But Who We Are

by Frangipanidownunder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 02:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17736986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frangipanidownunder/pseuds/Frangipanidownunder
Summary: A body-swapping tropefest fic.





	It's Not So Much Where We Are, But Who We Are

He feels constricted somehow. Like all his bones have been collapsed and folded up. He also feels lighter. Not dizzy or giddy. Just not as heavy. His face is stuck to a musty pillow and he drags his head up, groaning. His voice feels rough, kind of high-pitched and he rubs at his neck. His skin feels strangely smooth. In the darkness he strains to see the pillow but he can make out several dark smudges and a red patch. Has he been bleeding? He doesn’t feel injured or particularly sore anywhere. Just strange. He touches his eyes and there’s a crust on the lashes. He must have been pretty upset. He lifts the pillow up and inspects the marks. Not blood.

“What the fuck?” he whispers, testing out his voice. It’s still strained and weak. His throat is dry and he cricks his neck, this way and that. He feels a light brushing against his shoulders and he reaches a hand back around his neck. He recoils and springs off the bed.

“Why am I wearing a fucking wig?” He stumbles around the unfamiliar room, grabbing the nearest handle and pushing the door open. The bathroom is poky, but there’s a string light which he pulls to reveal a streaked mirror.

He stares, open-mouthed at his reflection. Wide blue eyes stare back, wet, smudged with makeup. His lips, full, perfect BJ lips. A small beauty mark punctuates the space between his mouth and his gently curved nose. His brows are neatly shaped, reddish. Quirked. And his hair. It’s a slightly mussed, very red bob. He’s turned into fucking Scully.

It’s then that he realises he’s naked. He’s afraid to look down. Yet he’s not. His gaze lowers and he sees the peaks of his nipples. Or are they hers? His breasts are…just fucking glorious. He tentatively puts his hand over one, pressing it lightly, feeling around the areola as he watches his reflection. What a fucking perv. But God, they feel good. Weighty and soft in his hands. He holds them there a moment as his eyes travel further south the auburn curls that hide the part of Scully that he’s fantasised about on so many cases.

His hand leaves a breast, tracing the curve of hips and across to his navel, further down…

There’s a knock at the door and he swings round, grabbing a grotty towel and covering the front of his exquisite, newly acquired body as his own voice and image stands before him.

Her hands are on her hips and she’s flexing her jaw so hard, she looks like she’s chewing on a block of wood. “I may look like you Mulder, but let me tell you, my rational mind is not going to start believing any time soon. You’d better have a fucking good explanation for this.”


End file.
